There are few of us that are not rather ashamed of our sins and follies as we look out on the blessed morning sunlight, which comes to us like a bright-winged angel beckoning us to quit the old path of vanity that stretches its dreary length behind us; and Tina, little as she knew about doctrines and theories, seemed to herself to have been both foolish and wicked yesterday. Today she would try to be good; and when she knelt down to say her short prayer--the very form she had learned by heart when she was ten years old--she added, ‘O God, help me to bear it!’ That day the prayer seemed to be answered, for after some remarks on her pale looks at breakfast, Caterina passed the morning quietly, Miss Assher and Captain Wybrow being out on a riding excursion. In the evening there was a dinner-party, and after Caterina had sung a little, Lady Cheverel remembering that she was ailing, sent her to bed, where she soon sank into a deep sleep. Body and mind must renew their force to suffer as well as to enjoy. On the morrow, however, it was rainy, and every one must stay in-doors; so it was resolved that the guests should be taken over the house by Sir Christopher, to hear the story of the architectural alterations, the family portraits, and the family relics. All the party, except Mr. Gilfil, were in the drawing-room when the proposition was made; and when Miss Assher rose to go, she looked towards Captain Wybrow, expecting to see him rise too; but he kept his seat near the fire, turning his eyes towards the newspaper which he had been holding unread in his hand. ‘Are you not coming, Anthony?’ said Lady Cheverel, noticing Miss Assher’s look of expectation. ‘I think not, if you’ll excuse me,’ he answered, rising and opening the door; ‘I feel a little chilled this morning, and I am afraid of the cold rooms and draughts.’ Miss Assher reddened, but said nothing, and passed on, Lady Cheverel accompanying her. Caterina was seated at work in the oriel window. It was the first time she and Anthony had been alone together, and she had thought before that he wished to avoid her. But now, surely, he wanted to speak to her--he wanted to say something kind. Presently he rose from his seat near the fire, and placed himself on the ottoman opposite to her. ‘Well, Tina, and how have you been all this long time?’ Both the tone and the words were an offence to her; the tone was so different from the old one, the words were so cold and unmeaning. She answered, with a little bitterness,--‘I think you needn’t ask. It doesn’t make much difference to you.’ ‘Is that the kindest thing you have to say to me after my long absence?’ ‘I don’t know why you should expect me to say kind things.’